David Baldacci - Hour Game

He admired his handiwork for a moment and then slipped back out. His truck was parked about a mile off, on a dirt road that he very much doubted the police would be covering. He kept to the wood line as he made his way back.

Chip Bailey sat up in bed, confused for a moment, then realized what the noise was. It was his cell phone ringing. He groped around, found the light in his small motel room and clicked on the phone. It was Chief Williams; his message was terse but drove from him thoughts of sleep.

Someone had just broken into the Wrightsburg Gazette. The description of the person fit Eddie Battle. They were locking down the entire area. Bailey was dressed in a minute, put on his belt clip and slipped his gun inside. He ran to his car and jumped in.

The knife hit him in the chest with such force that the hilt smacked into Bailey's sternum. The dying FBI agent tried to look around, to see who'd just killed him, but the blade had nearly severed his heart in two. He slumped back against the seat, his head tilted to one side.

Eddie rose up from the backseat and let go of the knife. He'd passed by the motel on his way back to his truck. Seeing Bailey's car in the parking lot, he'd thought it appropriate to pay back his old friend for "saving him" all those years ago. He might not get another chance. He'd dialed Bailey's cell phone, a number well known to him, from a pay phone. He'd imitated Williams just well enough that the groggy FBI agent would not have picked up on the difference.

Well, that inattention to detail had certainly cost him.

Sorry, Chip, you snooze you lose. And you weren't that good of an agent anyway. Pretty damn inept and pompous actually. And you wanted to be my stepfather so badly. Those big bucks are quite the attraction, aren't they, old Chip? Old buddy. Old pal.

Eddie climbed out of the car. He made it to his truck in half an hour, keeping well out of sight of the roads. It was now time to sleep and prepare. And then to act on the information he'd obtained tonight.

His shortcut to determine the identity of the person who'd killed his father had worked to perfection. He just hoped the "execution" on the other end would be as flawless.

"It was his knife," Williams told King and Michelle at the Battles' house. "His prints were on it. Eddie's not trying to hide that he did it. Hell, he's probably proud of it."

Chip Bailey's body had been found the following morning by one of his men. The death of the veteran FBI agent had staggered everyone.

"Pretty damn ballsy for Eddie to come out of hiding to take out Chip like that," said King.

"I'm not sure that's the only reason he came out," replied the police chief. "You two better come with me."

He drove them to the Gazette building and pointed out the word on the wall that Eddie had written there.

TEAT

King looked at the word and then glanced at Williams. "Teat? What, like a cow's teat? You're sure this was Eddie's doing and not some kid's prank?"

"No, I'm not sure. It looks like just that, in fact. But the Gazette isn't that far from the motel where Chip was killed."

King looked around the room. "What would he want from here?"

Michelle pointed to the numerous microfiche files. "Maybe he was looking for something in there."

"That's a lot to look at when you don't know what you're looking for," said King. He turned to Williams with a concerned expression. "You better watch your back, Todd."

"I'm not looking to get a knife in my chest. I've got twenty-four/ seven protection on me. I wish Chip had done the same."

"Maybe he thought it could never happen to him," said Michelle. "Or maybe he was too proud."

"Or maybe he really believed Eddie was his friend," commented Williams.

"Some friend," remarked King. "How's the search coming?"

"Way too many back roads and woods. And apparently, everybody within a four-state area has called in and said they saw Eddie. He's ten feet tall with claws and has body parts dangling out of his blood-encrusted mouth. I swear to holy Jesus I don't know how anybody gets convicted in this country, I really don't."

"It only takes one good lead," Michelle reminded him.

"I might die of old age before that happens," Williams shot back.

Michelle looked at her partner. "What do you think, Sean?"

He shook his head wearily. "I think after all this, Eddie's in the driver's seat and we're back at square one."

KING AND SYLVIA HAD JUST FINISHED dinner at her home. King had taken leave of the armed camp at Casa Battle. However, there was a deputy at the end of Sylvia's driveway just to make sure their private meal wouldn't be interrupted.

Sylvia played with the bracelet on her left wrist. "Where do you think he is?"

King shrugged. "Either a thousand miles away or ten feet, it's hard to say."

"He crushed Jean Robinson's skull, you know. And the windpipe of that police officer at the courthouse too. And he stabbed Chip Bailey so hard the knife blade hit the man's spinal cord! Not to mention what he did to Sally Wainwright and all those other people and almost killing you."

"And yet he didn't kill Tommy Robinson."

"You think that excuses what he's done?" she said sharply.

He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass. "No." He rose and picked up the bottle of wine he'd brought. "This vintage is best drunk outside." He was tired of talking about Eddie. He was sick of it actually.

They walked down the steps to Sylvia's small dock.

"When did you put up the gazebo?" he asked.

"Last year. I like to sit and just look."

"You've got a nice spot to do it, although you ought to think about putting in a boat slip."

"I get seasick. And I'm not that good a swimmer."

"I'd be proud to teach you."

They sat and drank the wine.

"I'll get you out on my boat. It's actually a very safe lake," King said after a while.

"You're sure about that?"

"Absolutely."

The man alternated between swimming just below the surface for fifty feet and then coming up shallow, only his face out of the water, and taking a breath before heading back under. He came up one last time, treading water and looking around. It was just as he'd thought: they hadn't secured the dock. Why would they think of that? They were only the police.

Eddie swam the short distance to the dock with methodical strokes. In his black wet suit he was pretty much invisible. He reached the swim ladder, eased himself out of the water and then stopped, listening. He made a detailed sweep of the surrounding area before continuing up and onto the dock, then pulling up the watertight pouch that was tied to his foot. He took his gun out of the pouch and checked his watch. He'd have to move fast. It wasn't like he could make a quiet exit, although there were rumbles of thunder in the distance. He'd heard on his radio that a major storm was heading in: high winds, rain and lots of lightning and thunder. He couldn't have asked for a better night. The natural elements were always his friend, it seemed. That was good, because he didn't have any others.

He went to the storage shed, worked the combo on the lock, opened the door and went in. He grabbed the gear he'd need, hit the switch on the electric lift and hurried back out, the lift remote in hand.

The Formula FasTech was lowering into the water. Before he'd been caught, he'd had the foresight to make sure it was completely ready to roll. The dealer who'd sold it to his father had said it was one of the fastest boats-if not the fastest-on the lake. Well, depending on how things went, he might just need every knot it could produce.

He climbed into the cockpit. When the boat was fully in the water, he hit the stop button on the lift remote. All became silent again. He wouldn't turn on his running lights until he was well out onto the water, if even then. It was fortunate for him that no one else in his family was really much of a boater. There'd be no one coming down to the dock at this hour of the night. Lucky for them. He was in a killing mood, family or not. He couldn't seem to help himself now.